


And a lesson

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9607652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: In which Edward is angry at Oswald, and Oswald is tired of trying.Warning/s: This is a dark fic that contains imprisonment, physical assault, emotional abuse, and is all around not a happy fic.





	

“You know what I saw when I made my weekly visit to Isabella’s grave today? Lillies. I’ve told you three times now – yes, I’ve kept count – that I want _gladioli_ to be placed there, _not_ lillies. I don’t care if other people want gladioli’s.”

Edward leaned an elbow on his desk, squeezing the phone receiver between his cheek and shoulder so he could rifle through his drawers. There was a list of florists in there somewhere. Only two of them stocked his desired flower with any regularity, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use the list as a means of coercion.

“Start telling customers you don’t have that flower in stock anymore, or I’m going to take my business to-“

And there it was, his hastily scribbled list. He caught it by a corner and brought it onto the table, smoothing it out with his forearm.

“Flowers of Sunshine. They’re a scant few blocks from you place, aren’t they? I’ll be sure to give them the highest possible recommendation should I have to use them. Coming from the mayor, that’s sure to perk up business.”

On the other end of the line, the receptionist began to babble out apologies.

“So, you’ll fulfill my request? …Good. Thank you. My clean-up crew should be by soon to remove what flowers are currently there and I expect to see replacements before my next visit. Goodbye.”

Frowning, Edward returned the phone to its cradle.

The people of this city had no respect for their dead. If they did, they wouldn’t consistently mishandle the maintenance of Isabella’s grave.

Granted, Edward had pilfered a grave for his own purposes two months prior… but those had been _extenuating_ circumstances, and he hadn’t defaced the grave site beyond digging it up. It wasn’t as though the symbolism of it would be lessened by the absence of a body. It wasn’t the body that was important.

That was why Isabella’s own funeral had been closed-casket. By personal request, in fact. It went against common tradition in Gotham, but he thought that a much nicer way to do things, much more respectful to the deceased then presenting Isabella’s mangled features to prying eyes.

He returned his list of florists to his drawer and slammed it shut. Hopefully that was the last time he’d have to make a phone call on this matter.

“Honestly, can’t anyone in this city do anything right.”

“It’s a wonder how anyone manages to get through the day, isn’t it?”

Edward’s heart leapt into his throat. He lunged for the pistol concealed in his drawer and didn’t manage to reach it before a hand curled around the collar of his shirt, pinning him to the table. The barrel of a gun settled against the side of his head.

“Even you seem to struggle in that regard,” said Basil, and he was sure it was Basil because why else would the long-deceased Oswald Cobblepot be standing in his office, threatening him with a gun? He couldn’t see enough of the man in his peripheral vision to tell if their height matched up.

“Basil, if this is some kind of joke…”

“Basil – the man you employed to emulate my father, I suppose? I’ll have to keep in mind to deal with him later.” The hand holding him down slid away, upward. A drag of fingers on skin. The gun remained pointed at his head while Oswald leaned over him and retrieved his weapon from the drawer.

Edward turned his head just enough to get a better look at him. He certainly looked like Oswald, felt like Oswald, and spoke like Oswald, but he’d seen Oswald die. He was the only one to have seen Oswald die. It _couldn’t_ be him.

He considered the possibility Barbara and company had betrayed him. Scooped him out the water, nursed him back to health. He considered it, and then promptly dismissed it; they hadn’t known where he would drive Oswald when he’d left the mansion to finish the deed. It would have been too late to save Oswald even if they had known, because one didn’t survive more than a few minutes beneath the water.

“If you’re indeed Oswald, you’ll remember what I told you following Butch’s assault.”

“That you would do anything for me,” murmured Oswald. He resumed standing at Edward’s side, an additional gun now in hand. “Didn’t quite turn out to be true, did it?”

Edward inhaled sharply. It _was_ him. Oswald was alive. “It would have had you extended the same privilege to _me_ ,” he retorted shakily, trying to retain composure. His heart was beating away like a drum behind his rib cage. “If you recall, you killed my girlfriend and then lied to me about it, among _other_ things.”

He heard Oswald sigh. “I already apologized for that. I should hope nearly dying was penance enough.”

“How did you do it?” he blurted out, because he couldn’t help himself. He had to know. “How’re you alive?”

“Contrary to popular belief, you aren’t my only friend.”

“We aren’t friends anymore.”

“And you don’t love me. Yes, I heard you the first dozen times,” said Oswald, sounding bitter and aggrieved. He removed himself from Edward vicinity and sat down on the opposite side of his desk, legs crossed.

He was the correct height, five foot six with shiny blue eyes and slicked-back hair. The only significant difference was the weight he’d put on. With one gun in his lap and the other pointed at Edward, he withdrew a flask from his breast pocket and set it on the table, removing the lid and emptying a fine white powder into the contents. He then pushed the flask towards Edward.

“Drink,” he instructed firmly.

Edward stared apprehensively at the flask. “If you’re going to kill me, you might as well shoot me and get it over with.” He wasn’t going to beg, not like Oswald had. He wanted to meet his death with some modicum of dignity. “Or would you rather go to the pier for that.”

“Edward, I don’t have the patience for this.” Oswald lowered the barrel until it was pointed at Edward’s shoulder. “Drink, or you’ll have someone digging a bullet out of your arm later.”

“Should I assume you don’t intend to kill me?”

The gun clicked as Oswald adjusted his grip. “Drink, Edward. The entire flask, if you please.”

Though he had no intention of begging, Edward’s self-preservation instinct wasn’t non-existent. If there was even the slightest chance Oswald would let him live, then he would take it. He couldn’t deny that the prospect of dying frightened him.

As calmly as was possible, he took the flask and brought it to his lips, swallowing the contents in three large gulps. It was water, faintly bitter. The aftertaste reminded him of dish washing liquid.

Once done, he set the flask back on the table. “What did I just drink?”

Oswald flicked on the safety catch on both guns, pushing one into his waistband and hooking the other over the top of his chair. “A sedative,” he stated calmly. “Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to start working.”

Edward eyes drifted to the gun hooked around the back of the chair. He wondered if he could grab it and shoot Oswald before the drug started to take effect. It wouldn’t take more than a minute at most, perhaps less if he was exceptionally fast.

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Oswald. “I can undo the safety before you can stand out of that chair.”

Edward jerked his gaze back to Oswald’s face. He then shrugged, because he didn’t see any point in trying to deny his intentions. “I would shoot you again, you know. To defend myself.” He stared at Oswald, gauging his reaction. The man’s lips thinned. “This isn’t like last time. Last time, I knew you loved me.”

“I still love you,” said Oswald quietly.

Edward blinked rapidly, feeling faintly dizzy. “I tried to kill you.”

“Yes, you did, and I haven’t entirely forgiven you for that.”

“’Entirely’ implies you’ve forgiven some of it.”

“Well, I’ve had time to ruminate on the event,” said Oswald. “And while I’m not thrilled that you decided to kill me even after I proved my capacity for love, I suppose it made sense for you to take my life in exchange for Isabella’s.”

“You got her name right,” was all he could think to respond with, because he was suddenly feeling very tired and disorientated. His vision swayed and he planted his palms on the surface of the desk, struggling to remain upright.

“That’s taking effect faster than anticipated,” he heard Oswald say. “Try to fall forward. I don’t want you breaking anything.”

Edward laughed, soft and hoarse. “How considerate of you. Want me in one piece before you dispose of me?”

“For what I’m about to do, yes, I’d like to have you in one piece.”

“What’s the plan?” he asked, swaying.

Oswald smiled blithely. “I’d rather it be a surprise.”

Slowly, Edward’s head dropped to the table. The wood was cool against his forehead. “Don’t like surprises,” he murmured.

Chair legs squeaked across floorboards. He heard footsteps and then felt cool hands lift him out of the chair and into the folds of a feathered coat. A hand carded gently through his hair, smoothing it back over his scalp and tucking it behind his ears.

The tenderness was far worse than any violence Oswald could have inflicted on him.

“Go to sleep, Ed.”

Against his volition, Edward did.

 

* * *

 

 

Consciousness returned to him in a rush of sound and sensation. Sun-warm sheets, a gentle breeze, the chirping of birds convening beyond a window. His pillow was wet. He’d been drooling on it. Groaning softly, Edward forced himself awake and twisted in his bed sheets, struggling for his last scraps of energy. His head was still spinning and he felt faintly ill.

Once he was sitting up in bed, he surveyed the room.

It was his own room, the one in Oswald’s mansion. A mansion he hadn’t utilized in some time.

Oswald had knocked him out and brought him to his mansion.

Forcing himself to take slow breaths, Edward reached for the bedside table and attempted to stand, wobbling as he took shaky steps towards the window, towards liberation.

It was only after three steps that he fell right over, slamming face-first into the floorboards. Not by any fault of his own, mind you; he’d tripped over something thick and hard coiled across the ground like a viper. When he rolled over and looked down to examine the offending object, he realized it was a chain. A chain attached to a manacle around his ankle.

For a very long time, all Edward did was sit and stare at the manacle encircling his thin, pale ankle, and it was only after several minutes that he realized it had been soldered shut. A thorough job had been done of it. It wasn’t likely he would be able to break the metal simply by striking it against something hard. When he tried to pull it over his heel, there was too little room to slip though. He wouldn’t be getting out of it anytime soon.

There was a vague sense of panic growing in him. An accelerated heartbeat, tremors in his fingers. His mouth was feeling impeccably dry. He ran his sweaty palms over his thighs, which were now encased in a pair of pyjamas rather than his black slacks. Oswald must have changed his clothes while he was sleeping.

The nausea was gathering beneath his clavicle as he climbed back onto the bed. The way he was feeling, he would have preferred brute force to being drugged.

The duvet smelt faintly of dust. It was clear Oswald had done some cleaning to rid the room of the scent of abandonment, but it was still there, however faint.

He raised his eyes to the door. He couldn’t see Oswald beyond it, and nor could he heard the man. Was he alone?

“Olga?” he said softly, hopefully. There was, of course, no response; it’d been silly to think she was still under Oswald’s employ. Edward had fired her months ago.

It was only after the dizziness had receded that Edward tried standing again. He took short, shuffling steps across the room, coming to a stop once the chain was stretched taut. He could reach the bookcases pressed against the far wall and the bathroom, but not the door, and nor was he able move beyond the window when he approached it. Not that there was much point in trying to utilize the window as an escape route. The mansion was far enough from civilization that no one would be around to hear him call for help.

After a while, he returned to the bed to search for the opposite end of the chain. He’d expected a plate drilled into the floor, perhaps little more than a hook, but instead discovered the chain slipping beneath the floorboards and out of sight, far beyond his reach. An escape attempt was looking increasingly futile.

“Ed, get out from under there. You’ll get yourself covered in dust.”

In his haste to comply, Edward smacked his head on the bed frame. Oswald seemed to have heard the thump of bone hitting wood, because he hobbled over and fisted his hand into the back of Edward’s shirt, pulling him out from under the bed in one great heave.

“How are you feeling?” asked Oswald, allowing Edward to drop bonelessly to the floorboards.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Oswald’s legs, one lifted slightly to accommodate Oswald’s limp. He licked his lips. If he incapacitated Oswald, he could steal his phone, call for assistance, and all he needed to do to achieve this was deliver a strike to Oswald’s damaged leg. When matched physically, Edward was sure he would come out the victor.

So he swung a leg toward Oswald, tried to slam it into where he was most sensitive to pain.

Oswald simply struck the end of his cane against Edward’s ankle to stop him, eliciting a yelp.

“Edward, please, you’re as weak as a kitten. It was quite a strong sedative I used on you.”

Edward had no intention of giving up just because Oswald _told_ him to. He staggered to his feet, lunging for Oswald, trying to knock him to the ground with his body, but Oswald simply grabbed him by the shoulders and wrestled him back down, pushing him into the duvet and holding him there with a firm grip.

Oswald was right; the sedative _did_ make him as weak as a kitten.

“What did I just say?”

His voice shook with anger. “Oswald, if you don’t release me this instant-“

“You’ll what, Ed? Do some more ineffective flailing at me?”

Edward opened his mouth to retort, and then closed it. He couldn’t think of a threat that didn’t require more stamina then that of a wet blanket.

“You’ve made your point.”

Oswald didn’t relinquish his hold. “Judging by your tone of voice, I don’t think I have.” He pushed Edward onto his back, holding him to the mattress with a forearm. “I want to make your position here clear: you’re not going to be leaving this room. You’re going to be staying here until I’ve finished taking back _my_ city, and even then, I may keep you here a while longer so you don’t trouble my operations. I’m being impeccably charitable by letting you live, and in comfort, no less.”

Edward scoffed. “You call this comfortable?”

“Yes, Edward, I call not being tied to pole and made to eat your meals out of a dog bowl comfortable. Which, coincidentally, was what I _initially_ wanted to do you to.” He slowly rose off of Edward. “It seems I’m too kind of my own good.”

“’Too kind’, says the man who killed an innocent woman for daring get in the way of his romantic conquest.”

“I’ve already acknowledged that was wrong,” Oswald snapped back. “You tried to kill me. You almost succeeded. Was that not enough for you? Do you want to see me suffer some more? Rub my face in my father’s remains, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, his remains are unsalvageable,” he said nastily. “This time, I would use your mothers.”

And that, it seemed, was one comment too far, because he felt Oswald’s fingers claw into his neck, gasped as his head was yanked back by the hair.

“How dare you,” Oswald hissed, spittle flying. “You, of all people, should know what my mother meant to me, and to speak of her in such a flagrant, disrespectful manner…” He was breathing hard.

Through his gasping breaths, Edward managed to speak. “Had you some self-control, perhaps she wouldn’t be dead. All the bad things that happen to you and those around you… you bring them on yourself…” He had to swallow down another mouthful of air before he could continue speaking. “You’re a toxic presence; you infect everyone who comes near you, and I was doing the world a favour by… by getting rid of you.”

He’d hit a nerve; Oswald’s eyes had turned glassy. He took a deep, shuddering breath and withdrew, permitting Edward to scramble upright and press his back up against the headboard, anticipating another physical blow.

But none came. Oswald merely stared at him, mouth quivering.

“I know you have reasons for feeling that way, but I’m _trying_ , Ed. Trying to be a better man than the one you _think_ I am. Despite your recent behaviour, I haven’t killed you, I haven’t hurt you; no one else could do what you did to me without severe repercussions, but you still mean a great deal to me and I simply can’t…” He took a deep breath and turned on his heel, making hobbling strides toward the exit. “I have more important things to deal with right now than your temper tantrums. I’ll see you come evening.”

Edward had to push down the urge to race after him. Where did he think he was going, leaving Ed here all alone? He didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to be trapped in this room with nothing to keep him stimulated but books he’d already read thrice over.

“Oswald,” he started.

Oswald disappeared into the hallway before he could continue.

 

* * *

 

 

To keep himself occupied, Edward removed each book from the bookshelves and proceeded to stack them into a tower, much like one would with a deck of cards. When he grew tired of that, he decided to hobble into the bathroom and try slicking up his ankle with soap and water instead. A little difficult, considering he could just barely seat himself upon the toilet, but he managed, mixing the soap and water and sloshing it down his left leg. After trying to yank his foot out of the manacle for what felt like a good hour, he decided trying to slide out of it was a pointless effort. He needed to remove it from the source.

This lead to Edward crawling back under the bed and feeling around for the hole in which the chain descended.  When he finally located it, he was just able to fit a pinkie finger inside. The wood, he discovered, was much too thick to be cracked by brute force alone. That was to be expected of a mansion of this quality, of course, but he had hoped….

No matter. If Oswald ever lent him utensils to eat with, he could always carve away at the hole until it was large enough for him to see where the chain ended. If he knew where it ended, he could start formulating a plan.

As there was little else he could do to prepare for an escape, he reluctantly selected one of the top-most books from his tower and lay himself down in bed, flicking through while he waited for Oswald to return.

It was well into the evening by the time he heard footsteps coming up the hallway. A couple of grunts, a wheeze, and then Oswald entered the room carrying a tray on which was his dinner and a small pile of books. He placed the tray on the bedside table and retrieved the books, striding across the room to push them into the bookcase. He paid little mind to the mess Edward had created of the room.

Edward glanced at his meal. A plastic plate, knife, and fork. The cutlery was disheartening, but the meal itself looked magnificent, a plate of succulent beef, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and a warm bun on the side. His mouth salivated at the sight, though he was wary to eat something Oswald gave him after having been sedated with a flask of water.

“Books?” he asked, eyeing his former best friend.

Oswald stepped over his tower. “There’s more to come, but I’m afraid that’s all I was able to acquire today. If you have any requests, I’m happy to take them.”

Edward jerked his gaze away. “I don’t want anything you give me.” Which wasn’t entirely true. He did want the books. He wanted the stimulation. He just didn’t want to give Oswald the satisfaction of receiving gratitude from the man he’d forced into these appalling conditions.

Oswald gave a weary sigh. “Please consider reading them, at least. I know you must get bored.”

“I wouldn’t be bored if you’d let me out.”

“You know I can’t do that. I’ve not even begun taking back my city.”

“I’d rather leave Gotham than be locked in here.”

“I don’t want you doing that, either.”

Edward cast him a glare. “I tried to kill you. You’ve no reason to want me in this city, nor anywhere near you. Unless through some twisted, perverted reasoning you’ve decided locking me in my old room is an apt expression of your love, just like you thought _killing my girlfriend_ was an appropriate expression of love.”

Oswald molars could be heard grinding. “Just eat your food, Edward. It’s going to go cold.”

He proceeded to reach over the bedside table and flip the tray, sending the contents barrelling across the floorboards. Water, meat, and vegetable in a disgusting puddle upon the floor.

“You would rather starve than accept a meal from me?” asked Oswald, his voice very soft, and very cold. If looks could kill, Oswald’s eyes would have flayed the flesh from his bones. “Then starve.” He stomped his way out the room.

To stave off the gnawing hunger in his belly, Edward filled it with mouthfuls of sink water and returned to his bed, curling his knees tight against his chest.

He could get through this. He wouldn’t break before Oswald did.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite his threat, Oswald returned every evening with a warm meal. Only one meal, mind you, but it was one more than Edward had anticipated he would receive after his outburst. He managed to go three full days and nights without eating before Oswald succumbed to desperation and drugged him while he was sleep, shoveling food down his pliant throat until the plate was clean. The sensation of being force-fed was not a pleasant one, and when he awoke from his stupor, his belly was distended and painful.

He started eating the meals Oswald gave him after that. Anything was better than being fed like an infant. In any case, he’d conveyed his dismay with his circumstances quite clearly through his brief hunger strike.

The days passed slowly. Oswald brought him additional books for his collection every time he came to deliver Edward’s dinner. He’d started bringing lunch as well, usually in the form of ham or tuna sandwiches and a can of pop, and he would generally leave some sort of puzzle on Edward’s beside table before leaving.

As arguing with Oswald didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere, he tried ignoring him instead. He didn’t as much as look at him. Oswald might as well have been replaced by a food flap for all the attention he paid the man.

To his delight, this seemed to bother Oswald.

“You can’t ignore me forever,” soon transitioned into, “Ed, please, speak to me. It’s not healthy for you to be acting like this.” After two weeks of silence had passed, he was nigh pleading, “Say something to me!”

On the last day of the second week, he finally rolled over and obliged.

“You’ve terrible, juvenile taste in literature.”

The anger that twisted on Oswald’s face was incredibly satisfying.

“You finally speak, and it’s to criticize the books I’ve been buying you?”

“I’m not sure why you’re so angry; I’m the one who has to re-read my own books instead of subjecting myself to Peter Pan.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I liked that story as a child and I thought you might like it too,” said Oswald, crossing his arms. “Maybe if you told me what books you’d like to read, I would be able to get something more you taste.”

“No,” said Edward simply, turning away from Oswald.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Oswald came in, he asked him, “How long as it been?”

“A month,” answered Oswald. “And no, I’ve not yet reached a point where I can comfortably release you.”

“A _month_?” Edward ran his hands over his face. He hated being oblivious to the passage of time. “Is this torture, Oswald? Are you trying to torture me? Because it certainly feels like it.”

Oswald scoffed. “You consider _this_ torture? I’m sorry this isn’t pleasant for you, but I don’t see any alternative.”

“Let me leave Gotham.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t want you doing that. I’m not going to evict you from your home,” said Oswald, doing little to mask his impatience. “And I’m sure you’d return shortly after anyway, perhaps to enact another of your revenge plans on me.”

“Your behaviour as of late has been tempting me, I will admit.”

Oswald suddenly looked very tired. “Are you always going to be like this, Ed? I’d like to exchange some _amicable_ words with you.”

“You want things to go back to how they were, do you?”

Oswald was silent. He took that as an affirmative.

“That isn’t going to happen.“ Edward threw his legs over the side of the mattress, standing before Oswald, at his full height. “You need to stop hoping that it will. Our relationship will never be what it once was, and I will never, _never_ love you. Not after what you did to Isabella, and certainly not after you locked me in a room against my will.”

Oswald winced and withdrew, as though slapped. There was that look again, the glassy eyes and trembling lips and pale throat bobbing around a whimper. Edward couldn’t deny that the look wreaked havoc on his composure. It took incredible will not to turn away.

He inhaled shakily, curling his hands into fists. He wasn’t going to let Oswald win. If he wanted to get out of this, he needed to persevere. “I hope by now that I’ve made myself clear.”

Oswald needed a moment to regain his composure. He wiped his eyes on the back of a hand, clearing his throat. “You're determined to hate me, aren’t you.”

“You haven’t made it very hard.”

“So be it, Edward Nygma ” he said quietly. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll release you.”

A thrill surged through Edward. “You will?”

“Just know that this isn’t how I wanted this to end.” Oswald regarded Edward sadly. “Give me a week. You’ll be welcome to leave by next Friday.”

Edward was much calmer following this commitment. The knowledge he would soon be leaving this wretched room did wonders for his mood. He spent every day and night thinking about what he would do once free, about conducing another heist, visiting Isabella’s grave, reading a good book. Occasionally he would think about kicking Oswald into a basement and locking him down there for to be found by whomever had decided to return to Oswald’s side, but that was far from a priority.

And then, one night after eating a feast of roast chicken and vegetables, the room started to spin. He was only vaguely aware of the thought ‘not this again’ before he fell into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

When Edward finally awoke, he awoke in a room, certainly, but not _the_ room, nor a room he recognized. Every wall was covered in an obnoxious, floral wallpaper, and there was no furniture in the room save for a chair.

His lips felt uncomfortably dry. When he tried to lick some moisture into them, he found cloth blocking his passage. Dropping his chin to his clavicle, he groggily made note of his hands cuffed to a radiator.

That slippery bastard. He hadn’t left Edward here to free himself, had he?

But no, that couldn’t be the case, because he could hear voices beyond the room. Several in fact. Why were there several voices? What was Oswald trying to pull?

What Oswald was trying to pull soon became clear as Oswald stepped into the room with a flock of undesirables at his heels. Zsasz was among them, of course, as well as numerous other faces he didn’t recognize. His eyes shot at a humming birds pace between them.

Oswald didn’t address him, instead turning to his guests. “Zsasz, bring her in.”

Edward could feel a sweat developing on his brow. He had an awful feeling he knew what ‘her’ was.

“Be right back, boss.” Zsasz cast Edward a toothy smile before exiting the room.

He smelt the body before he saw it; a pungent, rotten smell that pervaded his nostrils and made him gag, so odious that even Oswald raised a hand to his face to ward off the scent. The worst was yet to come, as Zsasz dropped to his knees before Edward and dangled the blue-skinned, slack-jawed corpse of Isabella before him, taking one of her hands and using it to stroke his cheek. He shuddered in disgust.

“Aw, aren’t you happy to see your girlfriend?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard. Isabella’s brittle fingernails felt awful on his cheek. There was barely any skin left on her bones.

“Remember my rules, gentlemen: no maiming, killing, or permanently disfiguring. He might be a traitor, but he’s still important to me. Victor here will be making sure you oblige these guidelines. You can remove the gag and cuffs at your own leisure.”

Edward tried to push Victor away with a foot and was rewarded with Isabella being draped over his lap, eliciting a strangled cry of revulsion. Parts of her were wet, and he didn’t want to think of the juices seeping into his trousers, staining his skin with her gunk.

_Don’t think about it. Think about something else._

“I’ll see you in an hour, Edward.” He peeled open his eyes only to watch Oswald step out of the room, looking far taller and far more intimidating than he had ever before.

 

* * *

 

 

It was hard to say what the most humiliating event of the past hour was: the part where he’d started crying and pleading for them to stop, or the part where he’d vomited after one of the more inventive goons had decided to make him kiss Isabella’s lipless mouth, followed by even more crying, though the pleading had tapered off by that point. The physiological torment through use of taunting and Isabella’s corpse had been far worse than the beatings he’d received, though those had been no prize either. By the end of it, he’d simply curled up into the foetal position while the occasional heavy kick to the ribs and head was applied.

A few ribs had been cracked, all the fingers on his left hand weren’t responding to his attempts to move them, and he didn’t expect he’d be putting any pressure on the ankle one of the heftier men had stomped on anytime soon. He probably had a concussion as well, though that was the least of his problems with how badly battered he was otherwise.

When exactly they left him alone, he wasn’t sure, as he’d endured enough head trauma by that point to be falling in and out of consciousness, but he notice at some point that Oswald had entered the room. There was no one else but himself and Oswald.

The man dropped to his hunches before him and gently pushed his hair out of his face, leaning down to place a kiss upon his sweaty forehead. Edward tried to push him away, but he was much too weak to manage anything but an ineffective flail.

“A doctor will be coming shortly, and Isabella will be returned to her grave,” said Oswald gently. “I’ve paid the rent for a nearby apartment for two months, though you needn’t use it if you’d find lodgings elsewhere. You’ll find the address in the bags I’ve packed for you. They’re just outside this room.”

“You’re sick,” Edward croaked, blinking away tears. “Twisted. Demented.”

“I know, Ed. I know.” Oswald continued soothing a hand through his hair. “Don’t you feel better now that all your loathing and disgust with me has been legitimized?”

Edward’s bottom lip started to tremble. He twisted away from Oswald, hiding his face from view. “Is that what all this was? Making a point?”

“And a lesson,” said Oswald, forcing Edward’s face back around so he could place a firm kiss on Edward’s trembling lips. He murmured against them. “You disrespected my family, disrespected me, and that simply couldn’t go without some form of punishment. I hope the humility will do you some good.”

He hated the affection, hated how bizarre it was after he’d been so thoroughly beaten and humiliated at Oswald’s request. He would have preferred hate. Anything but soft lips upon his dry, cracked ones and fingers in his hair, soothing away the pain of the last several hours.

He hated it, hated it, hated it.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he whispered. “Why are you doing this? It’s torture, you’re torturing me-”

Oswald continued to stroke his hair and hold him close. “You really are a mess, aren’t you? This is kindness.”

“No,” he gasped, like a child.

Oswald pressed one last kiss to his lips before standing. “I’ve paid the doctor to stay with you as long as you need them. Get back on your feet, Ed. You aren’t dead, after all.”

Edward said nothing as Oswald left.


End file.
